


Kheper

by sitabethel



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Citronshipping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8290711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sitabethel/pseuds/sitabethel
Summary: An unlikely saviour helps Mehen's village and family and he's determined to repay the thief for his kindness after the thief dies fighting the Pharaoh.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kamy2425](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamy2425/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Kamy! I'm out of town and typing this on my phone, so I'm sure it's drowning in typos, but I hope you like it.

Mehen watched, eyes horror-wide, as the floor gave way beneath Rishid’s feet, and he fell. He expected Rishid to vanish, into a hole or down a shoot, but he only dropped halfway. A sickening, wet gurgle plunged from Rishid's mouth and his eyes glazed over with agony. It was only then that Mehen realized that he'd been impaled by gilded spike.

“Me...hen.”

Mehen rushed to him, slamming down onto his knees so they were face to face. Mehen held his brother's cheeks in his hands.

“Brother, don't speak. I'll lift you up. We'll bandage you. It'll be oka-”

“Listen.”

Blood dribbled down Rishid's chin and Mehen began to weep.

“You know if they identify my body that they'll go after the village.”

Mehen shook his head no. “It doesn't matter. We'll get you home.”

“Cut off my head.”

“You're not dying here!”

“Mehen, you're not a child anymore. You've heard the stories. An entire village gone in a night-”

“That's a old wives’ tale.”

“Everyone burned, desecrated, even the children.”

“That's not real!”

“Father said-”

“Father's dead! He died and left us to take care of mother on our own and you're not allowed to do the same!”

“Protect our people. Do. What. Has. To. Be. Done.” He closed his eyes, waiting for the coup de grace. “Brother please.”

Mehen shook, hyperventilating. His hand gripped the handle of his khopesh, stolen from one of the other rooms. He was trying, he was trying, but how could he take his own brother's head?

Then Mehen felt something cold against his own throat instead. 

“You set off a trap and didn’t hear me sneak up from behind. What a couple of amateurs.” 

“We're not thieves,” Mehen snapped before realizing how unbelievable he sounded. “Not by trade. Our mother's sick. Look, take all the gold, just help me save my brother and let me keep one piece of treasure to trade for medicine.”

“The spike went through too many organs. Do like he says and cut off his head- unless you want your village to burn.”

“That's just a story!”

“No.” The voice growled, pressing the knife deeper. “It was real, real as the knife to your throat.”

“Our grandmother…” Rishid choked on blood, “from village … Kul Elna.”

“What?” The knife disappeared.

Mehen didn’t turn around, but he answered. “Our father was angry, when the rumors started. He told us his mother was from that village. Her name was Tarerwet, and she had a sister named Tem who still lived in the village.”

“Tem used to give me figs and dates. She taught my mother to bake bread because her own mother died in childbirth. She was like family to us.”

Mehen watched as the hooded and cloaked stranger walked to Rishid and pulled him off of the spike as if he weighed as much as a sack of grain instead of a full man's weight. Mehen started in shock. The thief was scrappy, but short and didn't look that strong.

The thief wrapped Rishid up in his scarlet cloak, blood soaking them both. He began to glow.

“What are you doing?” Mehen grabbed his shoulder, trying to stop him.

“I'm using heka, back off,” the thief barked.

Mehen stepped back, watching in fascination. When the thief laid Rishid on the stone, his wounds were healed.

“How?” Mehen stared at the thief in disbelief. 

“Didn’t your grandmother teach you to use heka?” 

“You’re a magician?”

The thief barked laughter. “No. I’m a thief with a few tricks.”

But Mehen only half listened. He grabbed the thief’s shoulder, staring down into his starlight-colored eyes.

“Please, if you know magic, could you help my mother? She has a fever. She’s all we have left. Do something.” 

“Mehen.” Rishid frowned. “We already can’t repay him for what he’s done.” 

Mehen growled in frustrated helplessness, letting go of the thief and turning away. 

“If you’re Tem’s people … you're my people. At least, you’re the closest thing to people I have left in the world.” The thief looked at Marik. “Gather what you can carry, and then we’ll go to your village.”

Rishid winced as he stood up. The magic had saved his life, but he still hurt from the injury and he held the area where the spike had stuck out, although there was only a tear in his clothing and what looked like a scar instead of a bleeding wound. 

“We don’t need treasure if you’re going to help us.”

“And what happens next month when some one else is sick? What happens if there’s drought and you run out of grain? You’ve already broken in and damned your souls, might as well feed your village for it.” 

It was true, and Mehen dumped out a basket full of fine, but heavy, linen, and started to fill it with what would be easy to trade without suspicion. He avoided the fancy perfumes and wines, and stuck with trinkets and hunting sticks. When they each carried a generous load of stolen treasure, they followed the more experienced thief out of the tomb and into the cold night air. 

Outside, Rishid led the way. He told the thief stories about the village and their father. They were mostly farmers, nothing as noteworthy as the the tomb builders (and later tomb robbers) of Kul Elna, but Rishid told their stories with pride, and the thief’s face lit up as he listened to them. 

“What about you? Did you leave your village before the fire?” 

“My mother hid me between two buildings and told me to stay. I was young, so I stayed in my hiding spot until I started to hear them scream, and then…”

The thief stopped, lost to time as if some wicked servant of Apep had snatched his ba straight from his body, leaving only a shell.

“What’s your name?” Mehen asked, trying to distract him. 

“I don’t know. Everyone calls me iksu.” 

Thief. 

“How do you not know your name?”

“It burned up with everything else.” 

“My name is Rishid. Mehen is my younger brother. We’re both honored to meet you.”

The thief snorted. “There’s nothing honorable about meeting me.”

“Nonetheless, we are grateful.” 

It was dawn when they reached the village with their baskets of treasure. They distributed shares in private, speaking in low tones, everyone knowing what they were doing was a death sentence, everyone too hungry to turn the wealth down. There was no pride in starvation, and the village was full of small, empty bellies. 

“Why?” A widow asked.

“Because,” the thief answered. “If the living Pharaoh won’t take care of his people, then let the dead pharaohs add debens to Ma’at’s scales.” 

Mehen could see that Rishid wasn’t pleased with what they were doing, although he didn’t argue since he knew the stolen goods would pay for grain. Mehen, on the other hand, found himself admiring the thief. The trinkets they passed out would feed the village for a year, but the tomb they’d left behind was still brimming with treasure. Why shouldn’t the old kinds provide for their villagers? Why did they need gold in the afterlife? To be rich? What was the need?

Then they were home. Their mother slept on a reed mat, her breath raspy. The thief knelt beside her, a strange look on his face. Mehen wondered if he was remembering what it was like to have a mother. He scooped her up in his scarlet cloak like he had with Rishid. There was only a single flax lamp in the hut, unlike the treasure room that had braziers for them to light. In the darkened room, Mehen noticed a faint shimmer bathing the thief's body. The hazy, misty light seemed to seep into Mehen’s mother’s body until she sighed a deep, clear breath. 

He laid her back down, swaddling her in flax cloth. “You should still buy her medicine. Magic only does so much.”

Rishid bowed. “Thank you. We can never repay you.”

“Yes you can. You can tell everyone that Kul Elna was a village like this one- that they didn’t deserve to be burned alive and melted into gold.”

“Melted?” Mehen asked.

“Melted. The royal court wears them even now, and there souls stay in the village- screaming.” 

“I’ll pray for them,” Rishid said. 

“You pray. I’m going to redress them.” The thief stood, crashing back down to his knees with an angry grunt.

Mehen knelt down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Used too much ba. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get beer.” Rishid went to fetch a jar. 

“You can rest here,” Mehen said. 

“I have things to do. That tomb … it belonged to the Pharaoh’s father. I need to go back to it.”

“To steal more gold?” Mehen asked.

“To steal the old pharaoh’s rotting corpse. I decided Mr. King should get a little family reunion with his father.” A bitter, sinister grin twisted across the thief’s face. 

Mehen shuddered. Stealing was one things, desecrating corpses was another. Then again, the thief had mentioned the souls of his family being trapped in the village. Mehen looked at his mother and decided that if it’d been her melted and cursed, Mehen would act the same as the thief. 

“I’ll help you,” Mehen blurted before he could think about it.

“Ha! You? You’d fall in a trap.”

“Don’t underestimate me.” 

Rishid returned with jars of beer and they all sat down to drink. The thief gulped his down in a desperate chug.

“Slow down, you’ll get sick.” Rishid rested his hand on the thief’s shoulder.

The thief jerked at the touch, glaring at Rishid as if expecting a knife before the realization that Rishid meant well washed over the thief’s face and he relaxed. He sighed, getting up slowly so he didn’t fall down again.

“I should go.”

“You could stay and rest,” Mehen offered. 

He didn’t want to see the thief go. The mysterious, hooded figure that had saved Mehen’s family and helped his village all because an old woman once gave him figs. It seemed awfully honorable for a thief, and it made Mehen want to unveil the mystery of him as much as he wanted to lower the hood well-fastened to his head. 

“I better not.” The thief frowned. “I should have never came. You're distracting me from my vengeance.”

And just like that he was going to walk out of the hut and away from Mehen forever, but destiny had other plans. He did walk out, and Mehen did chase him, preparing an argument to bait the thief into staying a day or two, but before he could speak, the rest of the villagers surrounded him. Several girls handed him wreaths of celery flowers. The old women sang, and the men bowed their heads in respect.

They called him kheper because he arrived with the sun, and Mehen liked it better than iksu. They also insisted he stayed for a feast to honour him. At first he tried to leave, but the press was thick, and the singing beautiful, and he eventually agreed to stay one day for a feast.

Triumphant, Mehen escorted his kheper back into his hut and offered his own sleeping mat to him.

The thief raised an eyebrow. “You going to warn it for me?”

Mehen scoffed. “Use magic.”

The thief clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if Mehen was missing out on a good thing. Mehen blushed and hurried to the river to fetch water.

He and Rishid prepared for the feast, and when Ra was midway through his journey, they stopped and slept. By the time Mehen awoke, his mother was fussing over the thief like she had a third son. He squirmed, but Mehen got the distinctive feeling that the thief loved the attention.

“What a mess. Make him bathe,” she insisted.

Mehen remembered the blood staining the thief belonged to Rishid and shuddered.

“Come on. I know a good spot by the river.”

“I'll go alone.” The thief left, like he tended to do.

Mehen followed. “I need a bath as well.”

“Find your own bank.”

“Shy? Or are you hiding your hair?”

The thief jerked at the mention of his hair. 

“I know it's hard, because my hair is gold.”

“Yes. Gold. It's strange, but considered lucky. Your grandmother had gold hair, didn't she?”

“And my father.”

“There was always a few in the village with gold hair. Tem was one. You’re lucky it was gold.”

“Why? What color is your hair?”

They reached the river bank. The thief turned and dropped his hood.

“Dear gods.” Mehen stepped closer, almost unbelieving of how white the hair was tickling past the thief’s shoulders.

“Unlucky.”

“It's gorgeous.”

“Sure. I think so, when I look in the river and see my face. Still get stoned if I don’t wear the hood.”

Mehen frowned as he listened. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure. You’re bad luck.”

“I don’t need luck.” Mehen smirked, dragging his fingers through the thief’s hair. 

His hand jerked up and combed Mehen’s hair, almost desperate, like he wasn’t used to touching. Mehen leaned in closer, allowing the thief to grope at his hair with both hands. Before they knew it, their lips were hovering a breath apart as they stared at each other through lidded eyes. They held a moment, and then they turned away, disrobing and getting into the water. 

“The food will be good. When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

The thief snorted. “Last time I had a mother.”

“Then this should be a nice night- um, with the food I mean.”

The thief raised an eyebrow. “Just the food?” 

Mehen splashed the thief, and the thief splashed back. 

“Stop it.” Mehen splashed him again.

“Make me.” The thief mimicked him. 

They continued to smack river water in their faces, laughing and keeping their eyes closed. They continued until they were sputtering between rounds of laughter, and doubled over. 

“Okay! Okay! I give up.” The thief continued to laugh, and Mehen realized that he loved the sound as much as he loved the way the sun caught in the platinum hair. 

“We should dry and dress,” Mehen said. 

“What? Don’t like what you see?”

That drew Mehen’s eyes the the wiry, but toned, brown chest, wet and flashing in the sunlight.

“I …”

The thief laughed yet again, stepping out of the river and shaking his hair out like a wild dog. Mehen couldn’t help but check out the rest of the thief’s body before stepping out to join him. They let the sun dry them, and then they dressed 

The feast was a blur of beer, and wine, and the best food they could scrape together from what they had saved up. Everyone sang, and danced, and the men wrestled. Mehen beat all his opponents, until he found himself looking up into the thief- back in his hood and robe. Mehen looked for the bloodstains, but couldn’t see them, as if the red of the cloak has drunk up his brother’s blood. 

They grappled, and again Mehen was amazed at how strong the thief was. Mehen was on the ground before he could get a good hold on the thief. He looked up, staring at the thief’s eyes as the thief extended a hand to help Mehen up. Mehen accepted. 

Then he snuck away and into his hut. He found a tent they kept when they made long trips and snuck out of the hut. 

“He’ll break your heart.”

Mehen spun around to see Rishid leaning against the outside wall of their hut.

“What?”

“You like him, but he’ll break your heart. He’s not going to give up his village for ours.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

Rishid shook his head. “No. I just wanted to warn you anyway.”

Mehen gave a single nod. “Thanks.”

He went back towards the river, setting up the tent in a cluster of tall cilantro plants. Then he went back to find the thief eating extra bread and chugging beer. 

“Where have you been? You missed me winning the last match.”

“I knew you’d win it.” Mehen smiled. “I set up an area that’s more … private. Someone you can let down your hair.”

The thief grinned, finishing his jar of beer and standing to his feet. 

“Show me.”

Mahan did. They stood outside the tent, staring at each other. Mehen pulled away the hood, wanting to see the thief’s moon-light hair glowing in the actual moon light. He scooped the thief into his arms, lifting him up. The thief stared down at Mehen, their noses brushing together, and then Mehen carried him to the tent. 

***

Mehen woke up and realized his lover was gone. He cursed, wrapping his shenti around his waist and running outside to see the fluttering of a red cloak trying to disappear. 

“Wait!” Mehen shouted, running after him. 

He didn’t stop. He kept walking. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder to give Mehen a finally glance, but Mehen was faster, and he sprinted. 

“What’s wrong with you? You can’t just leave me after last night!”

“You knew there’s still something I had to do.”

“I said I’d help!”

“No. I’m fighting the Pharaoh and his priests.” Only then did the thief stopped, narrowing his eyes at Mehen. “Can you summon a ka?”

Mehen stopped, glanced at the sand below their sandals. He couldn’t. 

“Then you’d die, and that’s no help to me.”

“Let me do something. You’ve done so much for me and-”

The thief cupped his face. “You’ve done more for me than anyone else since my world melted in flames, but you still have a family and you need to stay with them. Family always comes before everything, Mehen.” 

Mehen blushed at the sound of his name. It reminded him of the night before when he’d gotten the thief to call it out more than once. 

“Can you win?”

“I hope I can.”

“Then meet me? Three days from now?”

The thief brought Mehen’s head down so they could press their noses together for a moment before parting. 

“Alright.Three days from now. I’ll come back.”

Mehen smiled, and let the thief go.

And waited a week.

The thief didn’t come. 

Mehen was heartbroken.

He was also pissed off.

Pissed off enough to make the trip to Kul Elna. Rishid told him not to go, but he had to. It was like he was being pulled, like something from a dream. He didn’t think he’d find the thief, but he fantasized it. He imagined them fighting, and Mehen telling him off, then he’d vanish, leaving the thief yearning.

The town was a shell of burnt ruins. There were bones half buried in the sand and a newer corpse face down. It wasn't the thief, so Mehen passed by. 

He found the thief, dying. 

Mehen crashed down beside the thief, squeezing his hand.

“You shouldn't have come,” the thief whispered.

“What can I do?”

“Water?”

“Want wine?” Mehen have the thief a sip from his water bladder. 

The thief shook his head to the wine, bit drank as much water as he could.

“What happened?”

“Fought the Pharaoh … the priests. Heh, killed a few. Akhnaten, that bastard, he became Zorc's Shadow Priest and used my people, used them. He melted them and then used them to fight- it should have been me not him.” The last line was an angry hiss.

“Can't you use magic?”

The thief shook his head. 

“I'm done.” 

He put his hand on the gold ring laying against his chest.

“Almost all that's left is here. I put most of my ba in the Ring.”

“Why?”

“Another chance. In the Ring, I won't die, not my ba.”

Mehen's throat was tight, but he was calm. “I'm stealing it then. I'll keep it with me.”

“Give it to the Pharaoh. I need to be near, and wait until it's time to finish our game.”

“No, I'm keeping you for myself,” Mehen snapped.

“Listen, you fool, there's something here. Something dark, in the Ring. It's not for you.”

Mehen bit his lips, wanting to argue, but realizing that the thief didn't have enough time left. Instead he kissed him, for as long as he could, until his breath was too weak, then he combed his fingers through the thief's hair until he was gone.

Mehen didn't cry. He wanted to, but he felt hollow. He slipped the Ring's cord over his own neck and did his best with the thief's remains. He opened his mouth, and wrote the negative confessions, and used Kheper as a ren to make sure that whatever part of the thief that wasn't in the Ring could go to Aaru.

He went home, and told his mother he was going to see the Pharaoh, and he didn't think he'd ever be back. Fact was, he knew he wouldn't, he was staying close to the Ring, but he didn't have the heart to tell his mother or Rishid.

The Pharaoh was dead. Almost the entire royal court was dead. The Priest Set and the Priestess Isis spoke with Mehen instead.

“I say we kill him,” Set said. “If he has Mahado’s Ring that means he was in cahoots with that thief.”

“He says he wants to guard the Items,” the priestesses said.

“That will make them easier to steal.”

“I’m here to protect them- not steal them, you prick.” Mehen growled, looking up at the Priest sitting on the Pharaoh’s throne like it was made for him. 

“Why would you, a common peasant, want to protect the Items?” 

Mehen but his bottom lip, grinding it between his teeth. He couldn't tell the truth without being executed.

“You know how the Items were made. They were humans.”

“So? Why do you care?”

“My people came from Kul Elna. Someone needs to watch over their remains.”

Not to mention a certain thief who's soul was in the Ring.

“Remains? You sound like you want them buried.”

“I do,” Mehen said. “You can't possibly intend to use them after everything that's happened?”

Seto stood. “We’re weak. Now more than ever we need-”

“No, Set, he's right,” Isis said. “These Items brought pain and tragedy to us, but we invited it in by relying on such dark magic.” She touched her Necklace. “I've seen a prophecy. The Pharaoh will return and, with the power of the gods and the Items, he'll defeat the darkness and I sense that this man's destiny is connected with that. Let him protect the Items and this prophecy.”

A sneer curled up Set’s lip. “Fine. He wants the remains buried like they're still people? Then let him be buried in the tombs with them. And if the prophecy is so crucial- carve it into his back so he can bear that as well.”

“Set.” Isis gasped.

“Let him prove his loyalty.”

“That's too cruel.”

“I'll do it,” Mehen interrupted them both, his hands clenched into fists. 

“Are you sure? Living in a tomb is a harsh fate, even if you were partners with the thief.”

Partners. Mehen wouldn't have described them as that. He wasn't sure what they were. Lovers, yes, but only for one beautiful night. It was more than that. The thief had saved Mehen's brother, and his mother, and helped his village. Mehen needed to repay the thief for that- his life for his families’ lives and Ma’at had balance to her scales. 

***

The thief, trapped in the Ring, forgot most of who he was. The anger, hate, and vengeance stained his soul, but everything else faded, inked out from Zorc’s darkness.

Mehen did not have to suffer alone. The priestess, Isis, gathered enough volunteers to serve the pharaoh's memory that Mehen was never lonely. He always missed his people, but in time, he grew to think of his fellow tomb keepers as family, and even took a wife in order to create a legacy that would last until the prophecy had been fulfilled.

However Mehen was only human. He grew old, died, and-when his soul reincarnated 3,000 years later- he had no memory of who he'd been.

So when Mehen, now in a new body and going by the name Marik, and the thief, wearing a stolen body and calling himself Bakura, met for the second time, they did not know each other (although Bakura felt an uncanny sense of déjà vu everytime he looked at Marik).

Their story ended as tragically the second time as the first. Bakura fought the Pharaoh, again, and lost to the Pharaoh, again. And, although he didn't show it, Marik felt an overbearing sense of loss when the Spirit of the Ring was gone.

Marik tried to ignore the feeling, but it lingered in his chest no matter how much he tried to distract himself.

A knock on the door gave Marik a moment's reprieve from his thoughts. He had to look downwards to find the short, scrappy stranger with a shock of white hair. Marik held his breath. The hair instantly made him think of Bakura.

He didn't look at Marik, choosing to instead dig the heel of an over sized sandal into the carpet. His clothes were also ill-fitted, probably stolen.

“You probably don't recognize me, or even want to see me, but I didn't know where else to go. I-”

“I know you,” Marik blurted out on impulse.

He looked up, eyes starry and bright, and a pair scar cutting into his cheek. Marik couldn't place where but he felt a sudden rush in his chest at the sight of the not-quite stranger. It was a feeling of coming home after too long a journey.

“I didn't think you'd realize it was me without Ryou's body.”

“Ryou?” Marik echoed the word, his brain taking a moment to catch up. “Bakura!”

“Yeah, I thought- did you think I was someone else?”

Marik pulled Bakura inside.  
“Is this your body?”

“Yeah, before I was a spirit. When I lived here, in Egypt.”

Marik leaned closer, eyes flitting everywhere at once to take on as many details as he could. 

“I know you. Somehow, I know you.” Marik reached up and started combing through the white hair, already knowing exactly how soft it would be against his fingertips. “You wore a hood. To cover your hair, because it was unlucky.”

“Yeah, unlike gold.” Bakura's breath hitched in his chest. Marik noticed his eyes widen as something came back to him.

“What is it?”

“This is familiar.” He reached up and ran his fingers through Marik's hair in return. The action felt desperate, needy, and like they'd done it before.

Marik didn't even register that they were about to kiss. He moved on instinct, brushing his lips against Bakura's. He knew him, and he knew his body. It dawned on him that they'd been together before, but he couldn't imagine when or how.

“Mehen.” Bakura pulled back after gasping out the name.

It sounded right, although it wasn't his name. Bakura touched his face, his shoulders, his arms.

“I'm really here.”

“You're paler, your nose is shaped different, and you didn't have …” he was quiet. “Are they my fault somehow? Your scars?”

Marik shook his head no. He wasn't sure why Bakura asked; he just wanted to kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they both laughed into each other's mouths.

“You don't even remember, do you?”

“No. Was I there?”

“Your name was Mehen. Want the story?”

Marik pulled him down into the sofa, combing his hair as he listened.

“You lived in a poor village, and your mother got sick, so you and your brother decided to rob a tomb for enough money to buy medicine…”


End file.
